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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611123">A Horrorny Halloween</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lartse/pseuds/Lartse'>Lartse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Digestion, Foot Fetish, G/T, Gen, Gore, Macro Rampage, Macro/Micro, No Sexual Content, No actual TMA characters or plot I’m just using the fears system, Other Fetishes to be Added, Rule Thirty-Vore, Spit Kink, Vore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:02:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lartse/pseuds/Lartse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen fears, fifteen bite-sized macro scenes. This endless apocalypse doesn’t obey the laws of physics, only the laws of whatever is necessary to make things as gorish and painful as possible for the victims.</p><p>See beginning notes for a list of all scenes and their specific tags/kinks.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. THE SLAUGHTER — Dance to the Roomba Beat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <b>Chapter-specific tags:</b>
</p><ol>
<li>
<i>Dance to the Roomba Beat</i>: gore, violence, Roomba vore;</li>
<li>
<i>Ground Meat</i>: body horror, foot fetish;</li>
<li>
<i>Pearly Gates</i>: vore, mouthplay, saliva/spit;</li>
<li>
<i>Reader’s Digest</i>: vore, gore, digestion;</li>
<li>
<i>Razing Hopes</i>: rampage, violence, quick vore;</li>
<li>
<i>Reflections</i>: tiny gay jail, neglect;</li>
<li>
<i>Sinking Feeling</i>: spit, drowning, humiliation;</li>
</ol>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of pointless pain.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The land is spotless. Flat and sharp on the eyes like a razor blade. Not a single crumb to find, not a single place to hide. The three of you stand out as filth on the clinically white tiles, the only thing to see for miles on end.</p>
<p>You don’t know each other, and it’s better this way. You’re not even sure why you banded together. Any of you could be ditched or worse, without any remorse, not out of malice or hatred but simply because the impulse arose. Not the impulse to lash out at <em>you</em>, just the impulse to lash out at, to get rid of. You would just happen to be there, a collateral damage of sorts, like a dummy target in a shooting range. Then they would scrape the meager meat off of your bones for good conscience. It’s only a matter of time, and the tension keeps building up.</p>
<p>The screams come your way. The Cleaner itself is unsettlingly silent: a perfect shiny machine, its steel frame standing impossibly tall even from afar, not targeting anything or anyone but simply doing its job. Move forward. Vacuum the floor. Hit the wall. Turn 90 degrees. Move forward. Built to work endlessly in an endless space until the end of times never happen.</p>
<p>The screams come from inside. They sound stretched far too long. You freeze and stare far too long, and they shove you to the floor in the futile hope to gain just a bit of time, to be just a few steps ahead and avoid the relentless slaughter. You can’t stand up, you can only watch and panic. There is no fair reason for you to suffer; but they needed to ditch someone, the Cleaner needs to eradicate the squalor and the pest.</p>
<p>It hovers above you now, and your stomach drops and your head spins and your limbs flail painfully as you are sucked in. You crash against the ceiling, adding another blood stain there. Your bones crush, mybe some of them, maybe all of them, you can’t tell when everything hurts. Your lungs are damaged beyond use, you can’t hold a single breath to scream, yet your agony is heard of all. You are dragged deeper and you crash again. Your body isn’t your own anymore, your muscles useless and weak against the force of the machine, moving and twisting with the air flow. Your joints are probably all broken now, but you can’t tell since your skull is cracked open and your brain starts to leak out. You crash again and you see one of your own limbs too far apart from the rest of your flesh.</p>
<p>You can’t tell how long you have been trapped in this maze, how many twists and turns you have been dragged through. You can’t tell how you’re still able to think and see and feel every single of your nerves constantly bursting aflame even though what you are now can’t be considered a body anymore.</p>
<p>It starts to dawn on you that the machine doesn’t need a body to suck the fear from. It simply needs a victim to mutilate, whatever form it takes and however long it can survive. Probably forever.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. THE FLESH — Ground Meat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of the body and its limits.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You writhe, therefore you are.</p><p>How much and how far you are, though, you can’t know. You most certainly have flesh and bones and veins and blood all wedged deep into this giant wrinkle that is itself part of a greater whole stomping the brains out of you. You most certainly have a shape, however wrong it is now, but you can’t see it, can’t feel it, no matter how much you strain your nerves. And what good would it be to know it? The next step will mash your body deeper yet, will turn it into something even less you. And the step after that. And the one after that. And each one until, hopefully, you can’t get any worse.</p><p>You can’t move; your limbs are stuck, your muscles are twisted. You can’t scream; your lungs can’t hold air anymore, your throat can’t fight against the rush of wind. You can’t pound against your prison of flesh; you can’t be peeled off, you are becoming its flesh. The line between you and it is getting thinner and thinner: at this stage, what are you but sentient, tender meat? Your thoughts are only pain and fear, your memories absent but for a vague, terrifying feeling of what you lost. All you can see is the floor getting closer, then darkness, then the floor getting farther, over and over.</p><p>This time, right before the pressure and the darkness crush your form, you see something. Someone. And when the light relieves you, a bloodstain left behind. You manage to turn your eyes around until you locate the new body. It flails and makes a low, howling noise, its neck an improbable angle, its limbs jerky. You watch the body turn into putty, cry and plead for help, and you wonder if you were the same. The memories sharpen, the realization creeps closer, the fear claws deeper. It locks eyes with you, but you cut it cold. Rather, you want to. But each time you manage to turn your eyes away, the next stomp forces them back into place, and the slight sliver of hope that you won’t have to be a victim and a spectator is getting thinner and thinner. Maybe not being a you anymore will end this.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. THE DARK — Pearly Gates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of one’s last ride.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A last glimpse of light captured in the strands of saliva you almost got caught in, then nothing.</p><p>And still nothing.</p><p>Much worse than the horrors you have been subjected to outside are the horrors that you haven’t seen yet, <em>can’t</em> see yet. There is only you, and your imagination running wild. You’d rather stay here, where nothing has happened to you, than dare lift a finger and have it chopped off by a creature lurking in the dead-silent darkness.</p><p>Still nothing.</p><p>Then, a deep voice echoes from behind.</p><p>“Welcome, esteemed guests, to the Pearly Gates. This cutting-edge ride may not spit you out alive: this is your last chance to step away if you cannot handle the thrill. But if you dare stay… we hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”</p><p>A flash of bright white teeth, floating like ghosts, snapping furiously towards you. You scream and recoil, tumble down the spongy floor before they can reach you.</p><p>Nothing but the sinister laughter still echoing in the air.</p><p>Saliva pools below you and you slip gently across the tongue, but you can’t see where. There is only the sickening sensation in the pit of your stomach, from which you know you’re going upwards, slowly building speed, then coming almost to a stop. You can’t see what’s beyond the slope, and you shiver with antici—</p><p>You plunge left and bounce off a wall. Something catches you in mid-air; you slide down the throbbing web of saliva where you can’t catch your breath as the cackling teeth reappear. The mouth tosses you around violently, each time a narrow, disorientating escape from their chattering.</p><p>Suddenly nothing, and the deep voice.</p><p>“As much as this may sadden you, esteemed guests, we must inform you that the ride is reaching its end.”</p><p>The bang of a cannon shoots you outside. The light is blinding to the point that your eyes hurt, but through the spit you catch a view of the blooming landscape. Suspended in the air for just a moment, there is hope, until you see the throat waiting right below you and the mouth ready to close one last time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. THE CORRUPTION — Reader’s Digest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of toxic, selfless love.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="digest_title">
  <h2>The Way To Someone’s Heart Is Through Their Stomach</h2>
  <h3>Condensed from <i>IBS Today</i> by T. E. Lars</h3>
</div><div class="digest_article">
  <hr/>
  <ol class="digest_summary">
    <li>The pitfalls of love.</li>
    <li>Embracing your gastric cocoon.</li>
    <li>What do you have to offer?</li>
    <li>Happily ever after.</li>
  </ol>
  <hr/>
  <p class="digest_first_p"><span class="digest_dropcap">Y</span>OU have never found love. You went through betrayal after betrayal, countless arguments and torrents of crocodile tears. You wanted to give everything to the loves of your life, and they all rejected you, calling your behaviour “toxic.” This is to be expected: humans are irrational and capricious by nature, their personalities clash but never blend, and thus a true, healthy relationship can never form. Behind the façade of a happy married couple, beyond the walls of a charming household, you will find nothing but spite and regret. It is all smoke and mirrors: at the end of the day, not a single soul has love for you. This is what awaits you in the outside world. But home is where the heart is, and your real home is in <del>y</del>our chest: there is room for you down there!</p>
  <p class="digest_other_p">Now that you slid down the gullet, here are a few tips to get accustomed to your new environment. Finding the best spot to live the rest of your life is key: you want to keep away from the center of the stomach, where newly swallowed food will pile up, and instead look for areas less disturbed. When the acid pools up, cling to the walls and breathe slowly to avoid passing out. Use the skulls and bones of unlucky victims to decorate your space, but do not wait too long before collecting them or they may already be partially digested. Finally, do not attach too much value to any of your belongings: unlike you, they will not last and will be released sooner or later. Love is immaterial, if you want it all then you must give it all.</p>
  <p class="digest_other_p">Your symbiotic relationship with your host goes both ways: for the comfort and warmth they provide to your body and mind, you must offer something in return. This is key to avoid being digested and flushed out of your new home too early. Show your love by regularly offering hugs and rubs; with enough practice, your hands will feel numb enough that the acids will not cause you too much pain. Maintain constant communication with your host by screaming loudly: this will signal that you are still alive and well, and they will be able to feed on your slow agony and fear of rejection. When this is not enough, you may resort to physical offerings: dip a finger or a toe deep into the acids until it fully melts away, to them a small souvenir of the love bursting out of your chest; but do not actually tear your heart out of your chest, as it is the <i>pièce de résistance</i> that must be consumed last.</p>
  <p class="digest_other_p">With all this advice in mind, you can now rot away in your cocoon of love. As your skin flakes off, as your flesh decays and your bones fall to pieces, and until the very last moment when your remains sink to the bottom of the pit, appreciate what you have been given and what you let go. Be thankful that they let you become one with them and that, maybe, they did love you back.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. THE DESOLATION — Razing Hopes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of tragic loss.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re having a very friendly and promising dinner with your new business partner and your spouses. You’re in the kitchen, just a few steps away, listening to them chat and juggling pans over the stove, the smell of spices undeniable proof that your cooking lessons are deliciously paying off. As you gaze into the sauce, memories of your journey past simmer in your mind; but all those hardships are behind you now, and the sunset light flooding your cozy living room highlights all the work you put into this happy life. Could anything be going better?</p><p>Just as you’re serving the main course, there’s a gentle knock on the window. You all turn, but you’re the only one to recognize the figure outside as your high school bully, crouching slightly to get a better view inside your flat on the 63<sup>rd</sup> floor. The smile widens, and your whole world comes crashing down.</p><p>A finger tears effortlessly through the window and scrapes off the top of the skyscraper. Debris falls everywhere, a ceiling pane nearly knocking you unconscious. You hear the screams of your formerly-upstairs neighbours as they probably fall to their death. You barely have time to panic before the finger fishes you out, teeth bare and shining over you, speaking those dreadful words again.</p><p>“Hey, short stuff, that lunch is <em>mine</em>.”</p><p>Almost as a reflex, you protest, you cry, you beg. Your miserable fists pound against your impassive bully, even more pathetic than all those years ago. It all pours back in, the despair, how unfair, how cruel life was and will ever be, dreams shattered and the shards poking at your skin. Their grip tightens around you, squeezing the air out of your lungs. You are forced to watch in silence your flat being torn apart and swooped in the giant palm. Everyone else is still near the table, trapped in the rubble and drenched in sauce, screaming in agony. The palm shifts painfully slowly over the gaping mouth from where hot breath turns into fog. You are powerless to stop the inevitable downfall, and all the things you love soon disappear forever with a gulp.</p><p>The giant shrugs and carries on with their rampage, making sure you are safely tucked in their hand. The city you wanted to rule crumbles frail building after frail building, but it is not the cloud of dust that burns your eyes with tears; the future you had carefully planned is now only a distant thought, but it is not the pain of watching it float away that numbs your mind; the people you cherish die without the chance for a goodbye, but it is not their absence that tugs at your heart when your bully moves on to another city. It is that you are not allowed to die.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. THE LONELY — Reflections</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of distance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve lost count of how many jars there are until the end of the horizon. You start over.</p><p>One, empty. Two, empty. Three hundred, a single empty chair. Four million, a faint silhouette that won’t wave back.</p><p>There’s your own silhouette in the facets of your own jar. One, two, three, four… and you’ve lost count.</p><p>If it were your image mirrored in the glass, it would smile back at you, right?</p><p>Your jar is sealed shut, yet the echo of a weeping wind whistles on the rim, almost breaking the silence.</p><p>You thought you were alone on that shelf. Is that someone in the distance?</p><p>The hand should have come back and picked your jar by now. Have you been banished? Have you been forgotten? It doesn’t make sense…</p><p>One, two, three, more maybe-yous that don’t look at you, don’t look like you. What do you look like?</p><p>There’s nothing when you reach the side of the jar. <em>Your</em> jar, probably. It looks abandoned, smells of dust. How poetic.</p><p>There’s a label on the outside of the glass, high above you. You squint and try to trace the ink; but the curves don’t lead anywhere, somehow time-still.</p><p>You’re not sure you could recognize your name, anyway. How are you supposed to remember it? What good is it if no one ever calls your name?</p><p>Memories feel the same. There’s nobody to share them to, nobody to either talk to or listen to. The echo of not your voice, in the fog of lost your mind.</p><p>A hand picks a jar next to yours. You can’t see what happens to it. Then it returns, bright and shiny. Picks two, three more… Yours remains untouched.</p><p>Looking down to the floor, a memory whispers its way back. The view feels the same than from your flat. Too far from the ground to make out anyone or anything.</p><p>It wasn’t really a flat, was it? More like a cramped room with a few appliances thrown in for good measure. At least the landlord never bothered you. No one ever knocked on the door.</p><p>And there was that rickety elevator that never sat right with you. Barely enough air to breathe. It seemed to always go one too many floors.</p><p>The jar behind yours is carefully placed back, pristine and cared for. Either the glass is too thick, or it didn’t make any noise.</p><p>The glass is awfully clear, the facets are empty. Not a single one shows your image. The face outside doesn’t see your screams.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. THE BURIED — Sinking Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An examination of keeping afloat.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You drag yourself upwards, aching arms and tired legs uncoordinated in an attempt to swim. You might as well be pushing against the ocean.</p><p>You think that’s upwards. Hard to tell when the light barely reaches that deep, but the glimmer you’re aiming for should be the surface. There’s only up and down now anyway, and you can’t possibly get any deeper… right?</p><p>It’s a miracle you haven’t drowned yet. Or a punishment, at this stage. You’d rather your lungs didn’t burn, you’d like to be allowed just a moment of rest, and you’d be a fool to think you’ll be granted any of that. But you’re almost there, you have to keep moving, keep trying, keep fighting. The light floods through the froth, fills your eyes and surrounds you whole…</p><p>The air is so fresh when you emerge and gasp that you almost pass out. Finally, some rest. Your body floats effortlessly, too light to break the tension. The walls of your prison are still standing tall, impossible to climb; but at least you’re not drowning in spit. <em>The glass is half full</em>, as they say.</p><p>And high above, the lips are still there. They part at the sight of your insignificance, some in roaring laughter, others in devilish grins, teeth glistening and tongues coated in saliva. You might still have a chance to escape, or reach a safer place, at least be allowed to breathe just a moment, something, anything. Anything that isn’t drowning.</p><p>The lips make a dull pop and shoot a gob at you. You’re too exhausted to swim away; you’re forced to watch the meteor coming right at you, your eyes too heavy to close, your limbs too slack to twitch, and the fear gripping at your throat drains the last drop of your willpower. You can’t even take a deep breath before it hits you like a battleship.</p><p>Down, down, down you drown, dozens of wet, humiliating missles dropped on you, each sending you a little deeper until you almost hit the bottom of the glass, until your lungs nearly choke with empty air and hungry saliva, until you realize once again, filled with spit and dread, that the next wave will be worse.</p>
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